


A week of somewhat forced but not completely unpleasant dinner dates with Harry Potter. A story by Draco L Malfoy.

by QueenofThyme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eating Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofThyme/pseuds/QueenofThyme
Summary: The only thing stopping Draco Malfoy from being forced into hospital is a condition from his doctor to have dinner with someone every night. And one night he's desperate enough to call Harry Potter. And Harry Potter says yes.





	1. Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Major character struggling with eating disorder.

This is stupid. Very stupid. Draco would be smart to leave before Potter gets here. Chalk it all up to an embarrassing drunken dare that he couldn’t actually go through with. Except he can’t leave. Besides, Potter most certainly would’ve noticed Draco didn’t sound drunk on the phone. And he supposes it is equally embarrassing for Potter to have agreed so quickly. Of course, Draco expected Potter to accept his offer – that’s the whole reason he called Harry Potter of all people in the first place! – but he didn’t expect him to say yes immediately, without question, without consideration, without hesitation. It was surprising. And a little bit curious.

Still, regardless of all that, this is stupid. Stupid because he’s going to have dinner with Harry fucking Potter. Stupid because the restaurant they have picked is far more romantic than Draco realised. And stupid because the only reason he’s here is to avoid being hospitalized. A condition from his mother’s doctor: He must have dinner with someone every day so that’s he’s not tempted to skip it.

He is sure his mother is happy to have him every day and practically force feed him as if he is a baby. And for this reason he is not currently on the best terms with her. So of course, Draco is forced to make other arrangements. Yesterday it was Zabini – unfortunately he was only in town for the weekend, the day before it was Goyle – who was an atrocious slob and certainly would not be invited again, tomorrow it will be Pansy – flooing from Portugal especially, and today it is Harry Potter.

Draco panicked okay? It’s not as if he has an endless number of friends he can call upon. The stupid doctor had made him agree to a compulsion charm. If he misses a dinner, he will be forced to walk right into hospital and check himself in. And he is in no mood to see his mother. So, he scrambled his brains to think of someone who would agree to meet him, at very short notice, and the only person he could think of noble and stupid enough was Potter. Harry fucking Potter. And he was right. The boy who lived had said yes.

The details were a little fuzzy after that. Luckily Draco remembered that they had politely agreed on a restaurant near the auror offices where Harry was in-training so they could meet straight after, but he wasn’t so clear on the time. And he couldn’t quite remember how they finished the phone call…

“Can I start you off with an entree, sir?”

Startled, Draco looks up to find a waiter hovering over him expectantly. He drops the menu he has been twiddling with and shakes his head. “No.” He says firmly.

The waiter looks at him strangely, hesitating by the table. Draco realises his mistake and explains, “I’m waiting for someone.”

The waiter smiles. “Of course, sir. Then perhaps a drink while you wait?”

“No,” Draco responds automatically, “I’m fine.”

Draco watches the waiter leave with a nod, and exhales. He looks down at the menu in front of him. It’s fancy. Probably leather bound, with visible stitching at the bind. It’s a far cry from the stained laminates at the diner Goyle had insisted on, but not quite as extravagant as the dragonhide menus from Zabini’s choice of restaurant last night. Draco traces his fingers over the embossed name. He vaguely remembers Potter suggesting it - _Mangiamo._

Something tells Draco to look up – whether the scent of Potter or the sound of his footsteps, Draco can’t be sure – so he does. And sure enough directly in his line of sight is Harry Potter handing over his coat to the maître de, his lips moving. Draco’s not close enough to hear, and he’s hopeless at reading lips so he fills in the conversation in his head.

_“I’m here to meet Draco Malfoy. Have you seen him? You’d know by his impeccable fashion sense and striking looks.”_

_“Yes, a man of those high standards did arrive not ten minutes ago. Let me take you to him, Mr.…”_

_“Potter. Harry Potter….you know…the boy who lived.”_

_“Never heard of you I’m afraid. Come this way.”_

Draco straightens up as Potter approaches. He moves to stand and greet him as is only polite but his body waivers so he remains seating. It’s only Harry Potter after all.

“Here you are, Mr. Potter,” says the maître de gesturing to Draco’s table before looking around slyly. He turns back to Potter with an excited smile. “And can I just say, Mr. Potter, I am so very thrilled to have you here. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, I will be – “

“Thank you,” Potter interrupts, a wide photographic smile on his face. “Right now all I need is a menu.”

“Of course, sir, of course,” The maître de says with a partial bow. As soon as he turns away, Potter’s fake smile drops.

“Evening, Malfoy,” he says pleasantly, taking a seat without even glancing at Draco across the table.

“Evening.” Draco repeats carefully. He studies Potter’s face. There’s something not quite right about it. Something different. He tries to picture Potter’s face at Hogwarts but comes up blank. What’s missing?

Potter still hasn’t looked up. He is fumbling around in his pocket his face screwed up in concentration, until he pulls out a set of glasses. Of course! It seems silly now that Draco couldn’t pick it. Who is Harry Potter without his glasses?

“I’ve been testing some vision-enhancing spells to help with training,” Potter explains as he places the glasses on. “Most of them don’t last very long so I’m usually walking around with – Malfoy!” Potter shouts having finally looked up over at Draco. “You’re…I mean you look…are you…”

Draco stiffens. Yes, he knows what he looks like. He’d rather not but it’s not as if he has a choice in the matter. Mirrors are often difficult to avoid. He’s not surprised that Potter finds him as disgusting as he finds himself.

Potter coughs and carries on. “I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve seen…I didn’t realise…er…it’s good to see you, Malfoy.”

Draco nods, or at least he thinks he does. He certainly decides to nod, but whether his body follows through with the action is another thing entirely.

When the maître de returns with a second menu, Potter shuts him down quickly – but politely – before he is gushed at again. He’s clearly used to his popularity by now. It’s been long enough. Draco tries to recall the last time he saw Harry Potter. There had been his trial. Potter must have been there. He spoke on Draco’s behalf. But oddly enough, Draco can’t remember seeing him. Maybe he –

“DRACO!”

Draco jerks his head to find Potter staring at him over the table.

“Sorry...Malfoy. It’s just you weren’t responding when I called you…I didn’t mean to be so loud. I was just asking if you wanted a drink?”

“A drink.” Draco repeats, the words not yet having any meaning.

“Yes,” Potter responds slowly, looking over Draco closely, “I was thinking of ordering a bottle of wine?”

Draco blinks. “Sure.”

Potter looks over the drinks menu in front of him, his eyes scanning the page far too quickly to actually be reading anything. “Maybe a red…er…” Potter says, blushing faintly now. He clearly knows nothing about wine.

“Oh please, Potter.” Draco snaps, snatching the drinks menu from Potter’s hands. He looks over it. The words are clearly written, black font on a white page, but he can’t focus on the letters. He blinks his eyes furiously, trying to read the wine list. He can’t.

He waves down a nearby waiter, without looking at Potter. “How much is your most expensive bottle of red wine?”

“450 pounds, sir. It’s a -”

“Perfect. We’ll have that.” Draco says quickly, handing over the drinks menu. He can’t bear to look back down at it.

“As you wish, sir.”

Draco finally looks at Potter who is staring at him, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar. He looks ridiculous. “Relax, Potter, I’ll pay for it.”

Potter shakes his head. “That’s not…” He trails off and starts again. “I’ve always wanted to come here.”

Draco considers this. He wouldn’t have pegged Potter as the fancy restaurant type. Especially not the fancy restaurant that serves a £450 bottle of wine. He wouldn’t have pegged Potter as the going out for dinner type at all. Except maybe to the pub. Urgh. Pansy wants to meet him at a pub tomorrow. Revolting.

“It’s not so much the restaurant itself,” Potter continues when Draco doesn’t reply – Zabini told him flat out yesterday he was horrible conversationalist and worse listener. “It’s just that it’s right beside the auror apparition point so I walk past it every day. After we try the food today, you never know, I might come here every night, or never again I suppose. I guess there’s a lot of weight on what I order. What do you think you’ll order?”

“Yes?” Draco asks, sensing he has been asked a question.

“What do you think you’ll order?” Potter repeats politely.

“Ah.” Draco hasn’t even opened the menu. He doesn’t suppose there’s much point now since he seems to be having issues with his vision. It was probably that green mush his mother made him eat a couple of nights ago. He’d only had a spoonful, but he knew it couldn’t be good for him. “Whatever you’re having.” Draco says dismissively. At least he won’t have to think about it now.

The waiter returns with a bottle of red wine and addresses Draco. “Would you to like to sample – “

Draco gestures to Potter. “He will.”

The waiter nods and angles away from the table to uncork the bottle. Potter leans in over the table, his eyes wide with panic. “But I don’t know what to do,” he whispers furiously at Draco. “How am I supposed – “

He silences and leans back when the waiter turns back to them. The waiter pours a partial glass for Potter who stares at it horrified. The waiter remains, waiting. Potter’s cheeks redden. It’s all rather funny, actually. Still, Draco does feel bad for Potter. He jerks his head to the glass subtly, motioning with his eyes for Potter to pick the damn thing up.

Potter does so but instead of inspecting the wine, he goes to take a drink, looking like he might down the whole thing in one chug. Draco kicks Potter under the table to regain his attention. A slight shake of Draco’s head and suggestive wave of his hand should be enough to lead Potter on the right track. Almost. Instead of swishing the glass, Potter all but shakes it like a tambourine. It’s hard to watch.

Potter’s eyes return to Draco, pleading for advice. The only thing stopping Draco from laughing out loud at Potter’s face are the table manners his mother installed in him from an early age. He motions with his hands, and a slight twitch of his lips to take a small sip, _small_. He hopes it comes across. It does. Potter takes a sip, or pretends to (oh no – he definitely takes a sip, his face screws up in hardly disguised distaste) and places the glass down. Draco gives him a curt nod.

“Okay.” Potter says, not looking up at the waiter.

Draco rolls his eyes. Honestly. This man is supposed to be brave. “We’re happy with the wine,” Draco says to the waiter to be clear. “Thank you.”

Their glasses are poured and Draco and Potter are left alone once more. Draco finally allows himself to laugh.

Potter shakes his head. “You bastard.” He says lightly. He lifts his glass and takes another sip, no a _gulp_ , completely inappropriate for wine. “It tastes like shit by the way.”

“Of course it does…to an unrefined palate.”

“An unrefined – I’ve been training in professional wand combat for some time, you know?”

Draco stares at Potter, shocked. “Is that a threat, _Auror_ Potter?” He asks.

“I’m not an auror yet.” Potter says with a shrug.

Draco circles his finger around the rim of his wine glass. “So, you’re still allowed to threaten innocent civilians?”

“You’re not that innocent, Malfoy,” Potter says in a low voice. Draco misses his expression as he remains focused on his glass.

Draco drops his hand, but keeps his eyes trained on his glass. “I know that.” Flashes and fragments of memories hit him rather painfully and he feels a little nauseous. He tries not to let it show but he suspects it’s obvious anyway.

“Oh right,” Potter says, his tone changing completely. ”Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I was just…er…I meant it…um…playfully?”

Draco’s eyes widen and his heart beats a little faster, which he ignores. He looks up to find Potter avoiding his gaze. “Potter, were you _flirting_ with me?”

“No. I – “

“Oh merlin. Harry Potter is flirting with me. _You’re not that innocent_? Really? What does that even _mean?”_ Harry Potter is flirting with him. It seems like silly joke. He’s forced into these ridiculous dinners, only to be flirted with by an old school rival. It’s laughable. It really is. And so Draco does just that, he laughs.

“You can’t make fun of me. _You’re_ the one who asked me on a date,” Potter says, looking quite indignant as he does.

Draco stops laughing. “A date?” He repeats. “You think this is a date?” Draco goes back over his actions. He asked Potter out for dinner. Dinner. Dates and flirting were certainly not mentioned. Draco doesn’t remember the conversation all that well but he certainly would have picked up on _that._

“Isn’t it?” Potter asks, his indignance fading, his tone unsure, his face reddening rather rapidly.

“No. It’s dinner. It’s _just_ dinner,” Draco clarifies. He can’t believe he is having this conversation. In what world would he be asking Harry Potter out on a date? In what world would Harry Potter say yes?

This one apparently.

“Right.” Harry studies the table very closely, every inch of the skin visible on his face and neck a dark red. “Look, Malfoy don’t take this the wrong way because if I’d known it was just dinner, I still would have come, but now that I’ve…well I’m very embarrassed to be honest, so I think I should probably go.” He stands up, eyes still determinedly avoiding Draco.

He’s leaving. And they haven’t even had dinner yet. “No.” Draco says quickly, which at least keeps Potter from moving any further.

“I’m sorry. Can you just pretend that I didn’t…that I never…I’m going to – “

“Please stay,” Draco interrupts before Potter can get away. He can’t let him get away. He’s not going to hospital. “I can’t explain, but I need you to stay.” His vague words don’t seem to have that much effect. He tries pleading instead: “ _Please, Harry_?”

For a moment it looks like Potter might still leave, but then his shoulders slump and he finally meets Draco’s eye. “Fine. But you can’t say anything about this. Ever. I’m not going to talk about it.” He returns to his seat, the remnants of a blush still showing on his face.

Relieved, Draco lets himself smile. No hospital tonight. “Don’t worry Potter, I’ll behave myself. I can be _innocent_ – “

“Oh for merlin’s sake,” interrupts Potter, his face reddening again, although Draco suspects it might be more in anger than embarrassment this time.

Worried that he is about to be reprimanded, Draco is quite grateful for the return of their waiter asking if they’re ready to order.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” says Potter quickly. Great, he’s stupidly ordered the least Italian thing on the menu, which is going to make Draco look uncultured and uncouth by association. “Two of them please,” Potter adds. Oh right. So Draco isn’t going to look uncouth _just_ by association. He wonders if Potter is doing this just to spite him but when he looks over to Potter, he remembers he isn’t the spiteful type. Poor Potter looks dreadfully uncomfortable, his posture stiff and his eyes resolutely glued to the table.

Draco supposes he owes it to Potter to at least make him feel comfortable. Just by staying he is helping Draco more than he knows. Draco sighs. There’s only one thing he thinks will help. “I had a crush on you in school.”

Ah. That’s get Potter’s attention. He lifts his head. “Why are you – “

“Now we’re both embarrassed,” Draco says leaning his head on his hands, his elbows resting on the table. He’d forgotten how things with Potter were like: utterly exhausting. He could run a marathon and still have more energy left than this.

“A flawless plan,” Potter says, his voice one of his sarcasm, but his body language telling a different story. His shoulders have relaxed, and a sly smile has returned to his face.

“You could be grateful.”

The sly smile becomes genuine. “I am, thank you.” Potter leans forwards in his seat slightly. ”So, what year did you – “

Draco rolls his eyes as he interrupts. “If I’m not to talk about your embarrassment, then you’re certainly not permitted to talk of mine.”

Potter leans back and nods in agreement. “What have you been doing since…” Not for the first time tonight, Potter trails off and clearly changes his line of thought. “Since school?” He finishes.

“Subtle,” Draco remarks, although he’s unsure if Potter meant to refer to Voldemort’s reign in general or Draco’s trial. Each are fairly terrifying on their own. He has to remind himself Potter asked him a question before he replies. “I moved out.” Draco tries to think of anything else. He can’t. “That’s it I suppose.”

“Where are you living?” Potter asks politely.

It’s small talk. Draco hates small talk. Teasing Potter is so much more fun. “If I tell you, you’ll probably start stalking me again.”

“I didn’t mean your exact address, merlin. You’re really not going to tell me just because I may have been a _little_ obsessed in sixth – “

“Not tonight,” Draco interrupts before realising the implication of his statement.

Potter’s eyebrows disappear into his ragged overgrown hair. “Ah, but perhaps tomorrow night?” He says with almost a smirk. Draco thinks it rather suits him.

“Potter, you wouldn’t be asking me on a date, would you?”

Potter’s smirk finally stretches across his entire face, although perhaps that’s just his smile. It’s quite dazzling when it’s directed right at you, Draco decides. “Malfoy, you wouldn’t be flirting with me, would you?”

Draco almost agrees to the “date” but then he remembers. Pansy. “I’m seeing Pansy tomorrow night. She’ll hex me if I cancel on her.” He’s not lying. Standing up Pansy is something you only do once in your life.

Luckily, Potter is not dissuaded. “Then the night after. Friday.” He says, his smile holding Draco’s eyes in place. He can’t look anywhere else. “Dinner. Just dinner.”

“Fine.” Draco shrugs, as if he’s been talked into it. “If you insist.” He hasn’t.

The dinner is going surprisingly well. Draco thinks he might have to rethink his thoughts on the meal altogether. Sitting here with Potter is nice. It’s something he could get used to, he thinks. Something he could grow to look forward to. That is, until the actual dinner arrives.

Draco stares at the spaghetti and meatballs on the plate in front of him. Just looking at it makes him want to vomit. He breathes through his mouth carefully so he doesn’t have to smell it. He entertains the thought of knocking it off the table. Though he supposes Potter would insist on getting him another meal. How many plates could he knock off the table before it became suspicious?

Draco looks over to Potter. He’s already well into his meal, mashing his meatballs into mince as he goes, which seems rather against the point. Why not just order spaghetti bolognaise? Draco watches Potter’s fork as it drops back to his plate, tightly twisting tendrils of spaghetti…until it drops. Draco lifts his gaze and catches Potter watching him.

“Do you not like it?” Potter asks, his eyes darting down to Draco’s untouched knife and fork.

“It’s fine.” Draco says as he quickly picks them both up and hastily cuts into a meatball. It’s exceedingly dry inside. Draco has no intentions of eating it, but he pushes it around his plate regardless. He senses Potter still staring at him, so he carefully twists his fork and nibbles on a piece of spaghetti. It tastes like dry toast. He wants to gag, but Potter’s eyes are on him so he covers it with a small cough.

It doesn’t fool Potter. “We can get you something else – “ He starts.

“It’s fine,” Draco interrupts, his voice clipped. He doesn’t want to be short with Potter but Merlin, he’s so tired of people questioning him all the time. It’s none of Potter’s business whether he eats the fucking spaghetti or not.

“You have to eat some – “ Potter tries again.

“I said it’s _fine_ , Potter,” Draco says through gritted teeth, his voice louder than he intends. He looks around quickly to make sure they haven’t been heard having a domestic. They probably look like a couple or something. Just Draco’s luck. He pushes another meatball to the side of his plate aggressively. And another. And another, until he’s made a sort of moat of meatballs. He wonders if he mashes the meatballs like Potter did whether it would look like he’d eaten more than he actually has. He’s just about to pound into one of his balls when Potter’s voice interrupts him.

“If this isn’t a date, why am I watching you play with your balls?”

An unconscious splutter emerges from Draco’s mouth. He looks up to a smiling Potter and can’t help but smile in return. Which turns into a grin. Which turns into a laugh they both share. Which only gets louder the longer Draco stares at Potter. Potter’s smile, his laugh, is infectious.

The food remains forgotten on Draco’s plate.


	2. Thursday

“ _Pansy.”_

“Don’t _Pansy_ me. You must know I’m right. Look at you. You’re a skeleton. If I’d known you were this bad, I’d have come back sooner. You need to go to hospital. _Now._ ”

Draco looks around the dark crowded pub. Anywhere but at Pansy. And if _he’d_ known she was going to side with Narcissa, he wouldn’t have invited her. He looks down at the burger in front of him. It’s greasy and squished in, all kinds of pub grossness. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, _you_ don’t,” Pansy counters. “You think you’re in control but you’re not. You’re _sick_.” Draco feels her eyes boring into him so he picks up a chip and takes a small bite, just to placate her. It’s soggy and dry at the same time. Urgh. He raises an eyebrow at Pansy in defiance as he takes another bite.

It doesn’t seem to do him any good. Pansy only looks at him with undisguised pity. “Asking for help isn’t a bad thing.”

“I don’t need help,” Draco says through gritted teeth. Why must everyone treat him like a child? He can look after himself. “And I’m not going to the hospital. I’m already seeing a doctor.”

“And what did the doctor say?” Pansy asks. “That you should go to hospital? Because I can’t imagine them saying anything else.”

Pansy’s voice has started to rise, and Draco is worried some of the greasy pub patrons might overhear. He leans into Pansy. His body sways on his stool slightly which Pansy’s hawk eyes don’t fail to notice. He grips onto the bar with white knuckles and continues regardless.

“She’s asked me to have dinner with someone every night,” he says in a hushed tone. “I’m not allowed to eat alone.”

“Because you _wouldn’t_ eat alone.” Pansy nods, at last placated in some way. “Fine, I’m free tomorrow, I can come over.”

“No,” Draco says immediately, the word out of his mouth even before it is fully formed in his head. He curses himself silently because he knows how it sounds, and Pansy is relentless.

“No?” She repeats, not bothering to control her volume. “If you’re going to be like that I’ll come over for every meal until you realise- “

“I already have dinner plans.” Draco explains, already knowing he’s not going to get away with a vague answer. Must Pansy really know everything?

“I don’t believe you,” Pansy replies unsurprisingly. “With who?”

Draco sighs. He’s wasting his limited energy deflecting but at least he’s going to make Pansy work for it. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not lying. If you – “

“Who?”

“Harry Potter, okay?” Draco caves like he knew he would be forced to. “If you really want you can go ask him yourself. I’m not lying.” Although he hopes she doesn’t. He doesn’t want Potter on his case as well.

Pansy nods, but her questioning isn’t finished. “What’s going on there?” She asks, her eyes alight with curiosity, searching his face. She always does that. He knows the slightest betrayal of his face can give him away when she looks at him like that.

“Nothing,” he says with forced neutrality. His jaw twitches. Fuck. “I needed someone to have dinner with last night, Potter was available. And – “

“And you’re going out for dinner with him again, so soon?” Pansy smiles now, teasing. “Is this a date?”

“No. We specifically said – “

“You specifically said it wasn’t a date? Sweet Helga Hufflepuff, it’s a date,” Pansy says, laughing now. For the first time since she saw him tonight she finally looks relaxed. Draco realises it’s his doing. Everyone always gets serious when they see him now. On edge. They treat him as if he is fragile either with overbearing fretting, or worse, cold politeness. It’s incredibly irritating.

Draco feels compelled to explain to Pansy the real situation with Potter. He and Potter were mature enough to arrange a simple dinner without it being a date. So there’s no need for Pansy to get so silly about it. “It’s not – “ He tries to start but Pansy mutes him with a raised hand.

“You are literally in denial about everything, Draco. I can’t even talk to you.” She says turning back to her own burger. She takes a bite and sighs into it. “Nothing beats pub food in London,” she whispers to herself before turning back to Draco. “And we’re not leaving until you eat at least a quarter of your burger.”

“You are such a – “

“Patient and understanding friend. I know,” Pansy interrupts, her teasing smile back along with her stiff, stubborn eyebrows. She’s still worried. It irritates Draco. “Now eat it before I hex your oblivious head right off your body.”

Draco takes a bite of the pub’s supposed famous burger and muffles a retch. It’s horrible, but Pansy is watching him closely so he forces himself to swallow. It feels like a bowling ball squeezing its way down his throat. Draco wonders whether it might be worth sacrificing his head instead.


	3. Friday

A second date, no _, dinner_ , with Harry Potter. Who would’ve thought? Once again, Draco arrives first and sits awaiting Potter. Usually Draco would be rather miffed at having to wait. Usually people are having to wait for him. But Potter is coming straight from work to see him, so he supposes he can make an exception for his irritation. That and he is excited to see Potter. And it’s hard to be irritated at the same time.

At least Potter doesn’t keep him waiting for too long. Draco sees him arrive, not because he has been watching the door of course. It’s merely a coincidence that his eyes are sweeping around the room and happen to land on the door at the precise moment Potter enters. Draco continues to watch as Potter addresses the maître de.

_Here again, Mr…sorry, what was it?_

_Potter. Harry Potter. Come on, you must know me._

_No. Although I do make a habit of knowing important people. Your date for instance, Master Mal –_

_He’s not my date._

_But you’d like him to be, wouldn’t you?_

_I -_

Before Draco can continue the imaginary conversation in his head, Potter reaches him at the table. This time Draco recognises Potter is without his glasses. It doesn’t suit him at all.

Potter directs a smile somewhere in Draco’s direction as he sits but Draco knows he’s not really seeing anything more than shapes. Potter’s eyesight is atrocious. Although, Draco thinks as he watches Potter pull out his glasses, at least there’s an easy fix. Draco’s vision issues have been a little more unpredictable.

Last night in the dark dim lights of the pub, he could hardly focus on Pansy’s face, but he hid it as best as he could. Pansy would properly attribute it to “sickness” and wheel him into the hospital herself. But what does she know? After being forced to eat that burger last night, Draco had felt sicker than he could recall in some time. His whole body repelled it. Every cell. Clearly, Pansy is the one who doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Draco realises Potter is speaking to him. He tunes in to catch an update of Potter’s day. Training. Training. Dark spells. Training. It’s fascinating once he starts to really listen. Potter is learning about magic Draco wasn’t even aware existed.

Potter is expanding on harnessing dark magic when a high-pitched noise interrupts them. The sound of Draco’s phone. He immediately rejects the call without even removing it from his pocket. Potter looks at him questionably.

“It’s rude to answer calls at the dinner table,” Draco says with a shrug. Which is true. But also, he’s rather enraptured with Potter and he’s determined to -

Draco’s phone rings again.

“It might be important,” Harry says.

Draco sighs and pulls out his phone. It’s Pansy. Of course. He’s about to reject the call again, but then he thinks better of it. If Pansy can’t get a hold of him, she will probably come looking for him. And that would be much worse.

He doesn’t bother to greet her. “You’re interrupting dinner.”

“Good,” comes Pansy’s voice from the other end. “Is Potter there?”

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like Pansy can fully appreciate his irritation over the phone. “I told you he would be.”

“Put him on the phone.”

Ha. Pansy must think he’s brainless. “No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll have to conclude you were lying and come find you myself.”

Ah. Or she’s just very aware of the terrifying power she has over Draco. “Fine. But don’t – “ His eyes dart to Potter who is watching him curiously – “Just don’t. I mean it.”

Draco pulls the phone from his ear and begrudgingly passes it over to Harry. “She wants to speak to you.” When Harry only looks at him confused, Draco adds: “It’s Pansy.”

Although his face remains etched in confusion, Harry reaches for the phone and brings it to his ear. “Hi Pansy,” he says, his tone cautious. Rightly so when you’re dealing with Pansy.

“Yes,” he says after a second. Draco strains his ears but he knows he has no hope of hearing. He can only hope Pansy is not in the mood to embarrass him tonight.

“Unfortunately, we already have plans tomorrow night,” Potter says into the phone with a wink at Draco. _What?_ What is he talking about?

“Yes, my place,” Potter continues, all the while smiling across the table. “Draco won’t be able to resist my homemade risotto.”

Then his smile drops and he’s nodding. Draco can only imagine what Pansy is saying.

“I know, Pansy,” Potter says several nods later and that’s it. Draco leans over the table and yanks the phone back. The simple action leaves him panting across the phone to Pansy.

“That’s enough,” he says.

“I wasn’t saying anything,” comes Pansy’s lying voice over the line. In this moment he has no idea why he is friends with such a bastard.

“Sure. Goodnight Pansy.”

“Bye. And Say bye to Potter for me, you didn’t let me – “ Draco hangs up before Pansy can finish. He’s going to pay for that later. He turns his attention to Potter. “What did she say to you?”

“I got us out of a family dinner tomorrow night.”

“What?” Draco says, surprised. Although he hasn’t failed to notice how Potter did not answer his question.

“It seems Pansy and your mother are conspiring. But I think it’s a bit too early to meet the parents, don’t you?”

Potter’s playful tone relaxes Draco. If Pansy had been trying to convince Potter to take him to hospital as Draco suspected, then righteous do-gooder Potter would be far more serious.

“But it’s not too early to take me back to your place?” Draco challenges in return.

Potter does not seem discouraged by this. If anything, it spurns him on further. “You’re the one who seems to be getting ideas,” he replies. “I’m only planning on cooking you dinner. Just dinner. Playing with your balls is completely optional.”

“Touché,” Draco concedes once he stops laughing.

He lets Potter order for the both of them again which is better than straining himself to read the menu or thinking about the awful food they serve in this place. Not that’s he had anything other than their spaghetti and meatballs. But if they can’t get a simple dish like that right, then there’s no hope for anything else on the menu.

He isn’t listening when Potter orders so he has no idea what to expect. He’s having another lovely time with Potter, who isn’t nearly as straight-edged as Draco once thought, until their dishes are served. It looks fishy, no really, like it might be actual fish. He knows Potter is watching him assess it so he puts on a smile and lifts his fork.

If Potter notices that Draco’s fish only swims back and forth around his plate and never reaches his mouth, and he must notice, he keeps his mouth shut. Which is a relief. Because Draco can’t imagine forcing something so slimy down his throat. It’s repulsive.

Their dinner ends with the promise of tomorrow night, Potter’s address scrawled on a napkin in Draco’s pocket.


	4. Saturday

The first thing that Draco notices when Potter opens the door is the grand staircase just beyond the entrance way. It’s almost as wide as the one in Malfoy Manor, and at least three times the width of the small much more practical staircase in his current two storey apartment.

“Your house is bigger than mine.”

Potter grins. He’s wearing a full body apron with moving obscene words on it. Draco takes it in as Potter replies. “Jealous?”

Draco lifts his head from studying a particular animated f-word. “Surprised,” he corrects.

Potter raises his eyebrows and turns around, gesturing for Draco to follow him in. “I’ll give you a tour later if you like. But right now, I’m cooking.”

Draco continues to follow Potter through several rooms including a grand dining hall that Draco can’t imagine Potter entertaining in, before they reach the kitchen at the back of the house. Potter immediately heads over to the stovetop where he has a couple of pans seemingly stirring themselves. He steps in and starts stirring one manually.

Draco uses the opportunity to look around. The kitchen is large, clearly built for a number of house-elves to work in for their masters, not for a single wizard to be doing all the work. Especially not one rich enough to hire any number of house-elves, now that it’s against the law for them to work for free that is.

Movement catches Draco’s eye and he swivels around. A small black cat watches Draco from its position perched above the fridge. Draco looks to Harry for permission but he seems too occupied with dinner. So, Draco approaches, slowly, one arm outstretched, giving the cat plenty of time to run away if it wishes. But it doesn’t.

After a tentative sniff, Draco’s whole hand is claimed, two little paws pulling it in with just a hint of claw, enough for Draco to wince but not enough to pull away, and the cat’s tongue, like sandpaper attacks Draco’s palm. He smiles.

“Her name’s Pepper,” comes Potter’s voice behind him. Pepper and Potter. Adorable. Draco turns his head to find Potter watching him and Pepper with fondness. Although it’s obviously more directed at Pepper than Draco. “Actually, would you mind feeding her?” Potter asks, his eyes turning back to the stovetop. “There are cans in there,” he gestures to a pantry beside the fridge without looking.

Draco lets Pepper lick his hand a little longer before slowly extracting it and moving to the pantry. As soon as he opens the door, Pepper jumps from the fridge and is curling herself around his leg to get a look in. He retrieves a small can of food without bothering to look past the cat picture on the label. He spies a small bowl in the corner of the kitchen and heads for it.

“How long have you had her?” He asks as he peels back the lid, and shakes the food out into Pepper’s bowl. She’s pushing her way into eat before he’s finished and Draco accidentally gets a bit of meat on her head. He quickly brushes it off before Potter notices.

“I found her in an alleyway just down the street last year. I reported it but no one ever claimed her. I think she must have been a stray. When I took her in, she wouldn’t come near me. She wouldn’t even eat anything that – “ He pauses, and Draco looks up to Harry to find his face apologetic. Merlin, Draco wishes he hadn’t paused. Now he knows if Pansy didn’t tell Harry on the phone last night, she has definitely spoken to him since.

“But now,” Potter continues as if he hadn’t paused at a most telling moment and made everything worse. “She loves company, especially strangers, and she…she’s much better.”

Draco decides to give Potter a pass for now. He isn’t nagging him yet, although it’s probably only a matter of time. All his friends do it, and he supposes Potter is almost at friend territory. Almost. So he calls him out on something else entirely. “So, you have strangers in your house regularly, then?”

Draco is rewarded with a splutter from Potter and then an awkward: “That’s not what I…I mean…strangers to _Pepper_ …not necessarily…not just…er…”

Potter is _so_ easy to wind up. No wonder why it was always so fun to spar with him in high school. “Relax, Potter. I don’t mind. As long as Pepper likes me the most.”

It’s a while before Potter replies. Long enough that Pepper has finished her food and returned to Draco to play with his pant leg, clawing at him in a decidedly affectionate way, at least for a cat.

Potter turns from the stovetop, and his eyes trail to Draco’s Pepper covered ankle, while Draco’s eyes watch a flicker of sauce dribble down Potter’s apron to land on a small, flashing version of the word, dickhead.

“I think you’re safe there,” Potter finally says, and when Draco removes his gaze from Potter’s ridiculous apron it’s too find Potter looking directly at him, not Pepper. Draco feels rather dizzy all at once. Must be something to with Potter’s eyes on him. His hand finds purchase on the counter behind but he keeps his face expressionless to save Potter from reading into it too much, as he knows Pansy would.

“You should sit down,” Potter says.

And Draco thought he had hidden it so well! “I’m _fine_ ,” he says. How must he prove it to everyone? He is completely and inarguably f -

“I just mean that dinner’s almost ready.”

Oh. “Right.” Draco feels a little silly now for overreacting but he can hardly be blamed. With so many people in his life babying him constantly, he’s allowed to be a little on edge. A touch paranoid. But Potter still hasn’t actually done anything to deserve his wrath. So he best tread carefully, lest ruin another friendship. He already fucked things up quite spectacularly with Blaise.

Potter leads him back into the grand dining hall and gestures for Draco to take a seat at the very end of the table. Potter obviously doesn’t understand the significance of this. The ends of the table are reserved for the masters of the house. He is about to point this out until he remembers his silent promise to tread carefully. Lecturing Potter on pureblood table manners probably isn’t the best way to make a friend out of him. So instead he sits quietly, like a courteous guest.

In all honesty, he’s quite relieved to finally be sitting. Potter’s presence, like always, has made him ridiculously exhausted. If it wouldn’t be considered exceedingly rude, Draco would have already plonked himself on the chaise longue he saw when they passed the sitting room. Still, a chair will do. A chair at the head of the table.

Draco senses Potter talking to him from where he’s returned to the kitchen, but the sounds are too muffled to hear fully. Instead, Draco focuses on calming his dizzy head. Really. Anyone would think he was a teenager again. This is what Potter reduces him to. No wonder he’s been keeping his distance.

Vaguely aware that Potter has returned to the dining room, he tilts his head up, _slowly_ , so as not to anger his woozy brain and lead it to further dizziness. Potter’s mouth is moving but the words themselves remain unfocused, so Draco makes up his own.

_Of course, I’ve always been jealous of you, Malfoy. You’ve always had everything I’ve ever wanted, loyal friends, unlimited money and flawless taste. When I rejected your friendship in first year, it was only because I was so intimidated and enamoured by your greatness, I thought I hardly even deserved to look you in the eye. I’ve regretted it ever since. All those years I missed knowing you bring me a deep sadness that no time will ever overcome. If only I –_

A plate slams down in front of Draco pulling him out of his reverie. Although, really, it’s placed down rather gently by Harry’s hand, but it might as well be a slam from the way Draco’s body reacts, jumping back so suddenly that it lifts his chair precariously onto only its back legs. Potter’s hand is lightning fast - of course, the perfect bastard – reaching out to steady Draco’s chair and place it back on all four legs.

Everything comes back into focus at once. Potter’s hand resting on his back through the polished wooden slats that make up the chair’s back. Potter’s face in front of his. And Potter’s voice in his ear, urgent and breathy. “Are you alright?”

No. Draco’s heart is pulsing in the tips of the fingers it’s so fast. And his breath is coming out in pants. He feels uncomfortable and cold. He should be warm. But he’s cold. Freezing. But Potter doesn’t want to hear that. Potter wants to be reassured. And Draco is all too happy to oblige. “Yes, I’m fine, Potter. You know, you should consider investing in some sturdier chairs.”

Potter laughs and removes his hand, taking the only warmth Draco’s body can feel with it. He places another plate at a position adjacent to Draco and takes a seat. “If you’re so offended by my furniture, perhaps we should eat at your place next time.”

Merlin. Draco is not going to survive this night. “And what makes you so certain there will be a next time?” Draco silently congratulates himself on the delivery. He’s in that sweet spot of being teasing and aloof at the same time.

“Will there?” Potter asks, his voice showing no signs of aloofness in return. The question, along with Potter’s expression is so genuine that it throws Draco. It’s stupid and brave and completely Gryffindor.

Draco panics, unsure how to reply to such a direct request. He wants to say yes, he’d love there to be a next time, but he doesn’t have the courage. So instead: “I’m a terrible cook.”

“Maybe I can teach you?” Yes, Potter, that’s more like it. Teasing Draco can deal with it. Teasing is _his_ territory. He can handle teasing. In fact, he can top Potter’s teasing.

“You’re awfully eager to visit my apartment, Potter. Are you sure it’s _cooking_ you want to teach me?” Brilliant. Let’s see how Potter takes that.

“I’m not sure, Malfoy. You’re the one flirting with me this time.” Potter says, his tone feigning innocence, his expression more smirk than smile. The bastard!

“I wasn’t – “ Draco tries to defend himself but doesn’t get far.

“So was that a yes? Monday night?”

Monday? “What about tomorrow night?” Draco asks quickly. He needs to have dinner with someone on Sunday as well. He had assumed it would be Potter again. He was relying on it being Potter again.

“Sundays is pub food and drinks with Ron and Hermione,” Potter says, looking apologetic.

“Oh.” Draco suddenly realises he has completely dropped his disguise of indifference. Asking Potter to spend a third night in a row with him, and the fourth night over the course of less than a week is desperate. And sad.

“You can come if you want?” Potter offers. “Sorry, I didn’t think it would be your type of place.”

He’s right. Draco hates pubs. He makes exceptions for Pansy because she’s Pansy. But on any other occasion, he would not be caught dead in a pub. But Draco needs to draw attention away from his slip up of unconcealed desperation so he tries to make Potter sweat. “And what’s my type of place, exactly?” He asks, his tone accusatory.

It works. Potter looks guilty, uncomfortable. Caught out. It’s horrible. Great, now Draco feels guilty too.

“Somewhere they actually clean the tables between guests.” Potter finally says light-heartedly. Again: so right.

“I would hope that’s most people's type of place.” Draco says with a shrug, feeling more like a jackass with each passing second. “Pansy probably wants to see me anyway.”

“So…Monday? Am I invited?” Potter asks, back to his typical direct fashion. It’s really quite unsettling.

Yes! Draco shouts internally. “I suppose so,” is what he says aloud to Potter. “Only because you begged so desperately.”

Potter chuckles to himself as he picks up a fork. Draco allows him the chuckle. He knows Potter knows he’s been concealing his own eagerness but somehow that’s still better than saying it aloud.

When Potter doesn’t say anything further and begins digging into his food, Draco realises he can’t delay looking at the plate in front of him any longer. He looks down. It’s not terrible. There’s something less offensive about it simply because it’s been made by Harry Potter. But it still doesn’t look appetising. Just a mush of -

“Draco.”

Just the way Potter says it, Draco knows what’s coming next. He jumps to the offensive immediately. He really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “It’s Draco now, is it?”

“It is your name after all.” Potter says in feigned lightness. Draco doesn’t look up, he can’t make eye contact, but he hears Potter breathe a deep sigh and then: “I know.”

“Know what, Potter?”

“I know you have an eating disorder.”

The skin at the back of Draco’s neck prickles. “I have _what?_ ”

“An eating disorder.” Potter repeats.

Draco’s fingers clench under the table. The nerve of Potter. What the hell does he know? “I don’t.”

Potter’s eyes dart to the plate in front of Draco and then back to his face. “Draco – “

“So we go on a few dates and now you think you know everything about me?” Draco asks, forgetting his previous worry of labelling their dinners together. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

“That’s-“

“Are you a doctor?”

Potter, finally, begins to look as uncomfortable as Draco feels. “What?”

“I asked if you were a doctor, Potter.” Draco repeats coldly.

“No, but – “

“Then please don’t try and diagnose me. I’m _fine_.” And they were having such a good time until Potter decided to ruin it.

“You’re not –“

“Here,” Draco yells, his voice unfamiliar even to him, “Will this make you happy?”

“Don’t – “

Draco’s snatches his fork from the table and attacks the food in front of him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of Potter’s poison in quick succession. _See_ , he wants to scream at Potter, _I can eat if I want to._

Draco’s stomach stretches uncomfortably at the intrusion, and the horrible mush scratches all the way down his throat but he keeps going, ignoring Potter’s voice, ignoring everything but the food in front of him.

And when finally, he’s taken the last bite, he gives one last smug glare to Potter – although he’s not sure of Potter’s reaction because his eyes won’t focus – and storms out of the house. If Draco were thinking straight, he’d congratulate himself on a dramatic exit. But there’s a whirling sound in his ears and his brain is concentrating on simply holding Draco up. He’s dizzy and disorientated and sick. Very sick. In fact, he’s going to _be_ sick. His body, obviously rejecting the unnecessary mush Potter drove him to eat, only feels better when every last bit is expelled from his system. He drops to the pavement, panting, his thoughts turning back to Potter. _I know_ he had said. _I know._ He knows nothing. Draco is the only one who knows his own body. He’s in control. Why can nobody see that?


	5. Sunday

Pansy is late. Which is irritating. Incredibly irritating. It means Draco has to sit in this horrid pub alone, with no distraction from the putrid smell of the filthy place. He keeps his head mostly down so as to not make eye contact with any of the greasy pub patrons, but he can’t help checking the door every time it swings open. No Pansy.

He starts to feel an itching in his legs, not the kind you can scratch away, but the kind that makes you fidgety and restless, the kind that causes Draco to cross, uncross and then recross his legs again in an endless pattern. He’s waited long enough.

He calls Pansy. No answer.

He calls Pansy again. No answer.

It’s not until the itching sensation heightens that it hits Draco. That witch. She’s not turning up. She’s not turning up so Draco’s compulsion charm will activate and he’ll be forced to check himself into hospital. It’s cunning and deceptive and so very Slytherin. Draco should have realised earlier. He stands up abruptly and finally leaves the disgusting pub, taking a turn out into the cold chill. He pulls his coat tighter around him and walks along the street, planning his next move.

He can’t rely on Pansy. Blaise isn’t going to come running to save him, Goyle has church on Sunday nights (don’t ask) and Potter, well he can’t see Potter for obvious reasons. And on top of that he has no idea what pub Potter and his friends are at. Not that he considered it. Obviously. There’s only one option, he’s going to have to see his mother. She’ll be home, as always. Merlin. It has really come to that.

Draco stops, suddenly realising his pace has quickened significantly so that he is almost running. He has no idea what direction he’s going in but he has a sinking thought it’s a path that will almost certainly lead him to a hospital. He turns around and walks in the other direction, ignoring the pull from his legs to do the opposite. He might be too late. He has to find a safe place to apparate _now._

He ducks into a nearby alleyway and braces himself for the hurling sensation when movement in his peripheral vision stops him. He is not alone. Draco looks over to his right to find a woman blinking up at him. Her hair is matted, face dirty, clothes unwashed, and she is surrounded by what might have been warm blankets once but are now thin rags with more holes than actual material.

This gives Draco an idea. He wants to say it’s a kind gesture, that it’s him giving back, using his pureblood wealth for good, and it’s certainly how it will look (which is incredibly frustrating) but it’s not. It’s an idea fuelled purely by one selfish motive: Draco Malfoy is not going to hospital tonight. So, he invites a homeless woman to dinner. And the itching stops.

Her name is Anne. She’s not at all what Draco expects. Although he supposes it was improper of him to have expectations of a group of people he’s never even spoken to…or even to group people together based on a single similarity. Regardless, Anne is surprising.

First, in the bright lights of an adjacent muggle diner, it is obvious she is much younger than Draco originally thought. Probably not even of age, by muggle or wizard standards. Second, she is not shy or apologetic in ordering multiple dishes when Draco assures her he’ll pay for everything. Third, she is most understanding and sympathetic to his Potter problem. Not that he talks about Potter that much. But, for example if he does briefly mention their fight, just for explanatory reasons, she may listen patiently.

When Anne’s food arrives, it is a matter of seconds before the fork is in her hand, conquering piece after piece. Draco watches on, a little queasy at how easily she seems to stomach it all. She’s clearly starving and it makes Draco wonder when the last time she had a full meal was. Although he doesn’t ask. Because he, unlike _some people_ , knows it’s rude to ask such questions.

She pauses just for a moment to look over to Draco. “You didn’t order anything?” She asks, clearly noticing the absence of food on Draco’s side of the table. She goes to push one of her untouched plates towards him but Draco’s shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, but for the first time he wonders if it might just be a lie.

He leaves Anne with all the muggle money he has on him which must be a lot because her eyes get watery and Draco has to take a step backwards to avoid a hug. She must think he’s being generous towards her because he’s a good person. But he’s not. He has used her patronage at dinner for selfish reasons and all the muggle money she holds is the product of guilt and guilt alone. Nothing pure about it. Draco hates that she thinks otherwise.


	6. Monday

Monday afternoon. Draco has no idea if Potter is going to show up for dinner. He’s still mad. But only a little. It’s hard to be consumed by rage when you’re also consumed with missing someone. Because he fucking misses Potter. It’s pathetic. And very very stupid. But he does.

And if Potter doesn’t turn up, Draco is going to need to find another dinner partner, and he doesn’t fancy seeing his mother (obviously) or enduring another guilt-ridden dinner with a stranger.

Against all Draco’s better judgement, he calls Potter.

It takes a number of rings for Potter to answer and when he does with a simple “Hello?” his voice is a little breathless like he’s been exercising. Auror Training. Of course.

“Potter, it’s me,” Draco says quickly before he can succumb to temptation and hang up.

“D – Malfoy, hi,” Potter’s voice changes becoming stiff and polite. It’s not like Potter at all.

“Hi,” Draco replies and then stops. He doesn’t know what to say. _Are you still coming over?_ Seems a little desperate, a little pathetic. Engaging in small talk would be awkward and horrible so that’s out. There’s really nothing Draco can say. Draco curses himself for not thinking this through before calling as the silence stretches across the phoneline.

And then finally Potter breaks it. “I’m glad you called actually, I’m not sure what wine to bring over tonight. I’m rubbish with brands. Do you have any suggestions?”

Draco almost gasps at the brilliance of Potter’s words, that intelligent bastard. It’s the perfect way to confirm their d – arrangement for tonight without having to address the other night’s fight. Draco could just kiss him. Or, you know, not because that’s a stupid thought. He just appreciates intelligence is all.

Draco realises he’s let another silence stretch on and the longer he waits, the worse it - “Don’t be stupid, Potter. I have wine at my apartment. You don’t need to bring any.”

Without waiting for an answer, Draco hangs up, feeling much better.

He pulls out a bottle of red wine, and then as an afterthought, a bottle of white as well. He has no idea what Potter is planning to cook and chances are Potter won’t understand the importance of matching your wine to the meal.

Then comes the waiting game. Draco isn’t usually so eager for dinner. In fact, before his mother’s doctor forced him into this unpleasant schedule, he would do all he could to ignore the clock between the late afternoon and night so as not to be reminded of the impending conventional dinner time. Especially since it was usually the time his mother liked to show up as well. Not anymore. Draco apartment is now magically warded against her. Actually, that’s why she sent over a doctor in her place. And look how that turned out.

But now, all Draco can do is stare at the clock, anticipating Potter’s arrival. He’s both anxious to see Potter, in the light of his outburst the last time they were together, and excited, in the light of Potter being Potter.

When Potter finally does show, Draco sees him first from his bedroom window which looks down onto the street. He’s carrying way too many bags for one person, and certainly way too many for a wizard – any other would’ve shrunk the items and fit them into one bag or even their pocket for Merlin’s sake. But not Potter.

Draco feels sorry for the bastard and hurries down to meet him, with only a fleeting concern of how eager he might look in the process. When he opens the door to Potter juggling his bags, clearly trying to work out a way to knock without any hands, Draco is rewarded with a dazzling smile. Yes, that might explain his excitement.

Potter, again clearly having no understanding of pureblood traditions, or ever just manners in general really, barges straight into the house, searching on his own for the kitchen before Draco has time to even offer a tour.

Draco follows him around, not bothering to help direct. Potter seems pretty capable on his own because he finds the kitchen via the entrance way under the stairs almost immediately, dropping all his bags on the bench with a sigh of relief. It’s at this point that he finally speaks and also when Draco realises he’s been clenching his teeth in anticipation.

“How good are you at chopping?”

It’s not what Draco had been expecting. He hesitates. “Ah…”

“Grating, peeling…opening jars?” Potter continues, beginning to unpack the bags.

“Not very,” Draco answers honestly. He wonders how long it will be until they mention the fight.

“At least you have a nice kitchen going for you.”

It _is_ a nice kitchen. Retro baby blue tile with a floor to ceiling window that looks out onto a shared courtyard. Usually Draco’s blinds remain tightly closed but he has opened them today for Potter’s benefit. He should enjoy the full view even if Draco doesn’t.

“I have far more than _that_ going for me, I can assure you, Potter.” Draco can’t help but be cheeky in his reply. Seeing Potter seems to pull out an embarrassingly flirty side of him. “Don’t you worry your precious little head about what that means.” He looks over to Potter and is pleased to see a hint of colour in his face.

“Worry isn’t how I’d describe my thought process,” Potter says his eyes firmly focused on the final bag he is unpacking.

Draco leans up against the counter across from Potter. He’s feeling a little light headed and he’s attributing it to Potter’s dazzling smile from earlier. “So what do you want me to do?” He asks, happy for Potter to lead the way. Potter looks up at him sharply. “Chop, grate, peel?” Draco prompts.

“Oh right,” Potter says quickly, turning away again, which gives Draco the suspicion he was thinking something else entirely.

Potter puts Draco to work, slicing and dicing a million different vegetables, all the while explaining what ingredients will be used to pull out other flavours and then if that wasn’t already overkill, also explaining each of their dietary benefits. It’s not subtle. And Potter obviously knows that. But Draco lets him continue regardless, trying not to make any snarky comments along the way – which is difficult.

Somehow Draco isn’t mad this time. It could be the gentle smile on Potter’s face, the way he stands close by Draco’s side, almost always near enough to touch, or it could be the fact that he’s actually ready to listen now, really listen. And he’s not altogether unconvinced that Potter has a point.

It’s when Draco is slicing layers of eggplant that he starts to feel the unbearable heaviness in his head, which infuriatingly feels light, or perhaps empty, at the same time. His knife drops to the chopping board with a quiet clatter, but it is enough to draw Potter’s attention. Draco feels Potter’s hands, one at his back, one at his elbow, and he can see the blur of Potters lips moving but there’s no sound coming out.

_If I’d known it was just dinner, I still would have come, but –_

And then Draco is falling both metaphorically and physically, and in at least one of those instances, but probably both, Potter catches him with gentle hands. It would be romantic if it weren’t for the fact that Draco was far too out of it to appreciate it at all.

When he comes back to, whether minutes or hours later Draco has no idea, he is lying down on a cold hard floor, and there’s a panicked voice at his ear.

“Wake up. Draco, wake up. _Please_. Draco. Draco.”

Draco opens his eyes. Or at least he thinks he does. But he can’t see anything. He lifts his hands to his face, searching. His eyelids are open. His eyelids are open but he can’t see anything.

Potter’s voice has stopped. Draco hears the unmistakeable sound of a dialtone and then the faint voice: “St Mungo’s Emergency. What is your –“

Draco’s hand springs up automatically. Unable to see Potter or the phone, he blindly flails his hand until he hears the phone drop from Potter’s hand and clatter to the floor. “No hospital.” He manages to say before he loses consciousness again.

Coming to for the second time is much more pleasant. In place of a hard floor is something soft and familiar. His mattress. Which means Potter must have carried him up the stairs. Before he can get too upset about missing that, he remembers his vision. He opens his eyes in a panic. It’s blurry but it’s there. Colours and shapes…and movement. Potter’s pacing at the end of Draco’s bed, phone in hand.

For a second Draco considers lunging out of bed and yanking the phone from Potter’s hand but then the conversation reaches his ear and he relaxes. It’s not the hospital at least.

“-wake up soon, I am taking him to the hospital. I don’t care what he says. Merlin, I thought he was…but I think he just fainted.”

Draco watches Potter as he slowly comes into focus. He is frantic. One hand grasping the hair on his own head in what looks like a painful fashion as he continues to pace back and forth, back and forth, back and –

“Draco!” Potter’s yells suddenly, obviously catching sight of Draco’s open eyes. “Yeah, he’s awake. I’ll call you back,” Potter says into the phone as he comes around to Draco’s side.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Draco answers automatically except his throat is dry so it comes out a little choked up. Not exactly what he was going for.

Potter’s eyebrows have a little party on his face before deciding to drop dangerously close to his eyes. “Why won’t you let me take you to hospital?” He asks, but it’s gentle. Of course it’s gentle. It’s Harry fucking Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World and now he’s here to save Draco.

“I don’t need – “ Draco starts and then stops himself. He’s not so sure what he needs anymore. And if he’s being honest, this fainting spell has scared him. Petrified him, even. And the hospital isn’t looking as terrible as it once did. But – “I’m not ready.” Draco answers truthfully instead.

Potter nods and reaches out his hand to hold Draco’s, gently, always gently. Draco tries to hold back a shiver. “You need to be ready very soon.”

Draco hears the implication in his words. He is being taken to the hospital whether he likes it or not. There’s something strangely relieving in it, knowing the choice isn’t really in his hands. Not when he’s up against Harry Potter. The defeater of the Dark Lord. People bow down to him on the street – no, really some of them do! Narcissa Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and Harry Potter. Merlin, if they’d teamed up during the war, Voldemort would have been destroyed much earlier.

“I know,” Draco finally says, his voice shaky. “Just give me a couple of days.”

Potter agrees although he’s clearly not happy about it in the slightest. In compromise, he insists on spending the night. At first Draco is a little confused by the negotiation. Surely Potter knows he is far too exhausted to…

“I’m not going to try anything,” Potter explains, clearly prompted by Draco’s expression, “I just can’t leave you like this.”

It’s not exactly how Draco pictured Potter would first spend the night. Not that he had pictured it of course. But let’s just say if, _hypothetically_ , he had, it certainly didn’t include Potter sleeping on a bundle of pillows on Draco’s bedroom floor, fully clothed. And Draco tucked up alone in his king bed, also fully clothed.

But if he’s being honest, it’s a relief to hear Potter’s quiet snores across the room. Draco can’t bear to be alone right now, not when he’s this scared. So so scared. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until he feels the wetness puddle at his pillow. He’s not ready for this. Any of this.


	7. Tuesday

“Don’t be mad.” Pansy says as soon as she sits down. She already has a pint half drunk in front of her. She had obviously turned up early to make up for standing Draco up last time.

“I’m not,” Draco says, gripping onto the bar top tightly to balance himself on his stool.

“Because it was for your own good,” she continues.

“I know.”

“And it’s not like – wait.” Pansy it seems, finally hears him. “You _know_. You’re not mad?”

Draco skips over this. For once, he’s happy for someone else to be a couple of steps behind. “I’m going to see my mother tomorrow.”

Pansy’s face freezes in place, not knowing how to take this information. “That’s…good?” She hedges. "Are you – “

“I’ve decided she, and you, and Potter I suppose, might be right.”

Pansy’s face splits, no relaxes, into a smile and – oh no – there’s a hint of water swimming in her eyes. “Oh Draco. Thank Merlin. We can go to the hospital now if – “

“I said _might,”_ Draco quickly interrupts before Pansy gets any fanciful ideas. “And I’ve only made up my mind today. Please let me have just one more night in my own bed.”

She sits back down, clearly disappointed but relenting nonetheless. “ _One_ more _,_ ” she repeats. “What made you change your mind?”

Draco thinks of his recent dinners, with Potter, with Pansy, with Anne. He doesn’t want to be the one everyone looks at in pity. He doesn’t want to be dodging questions, avoiding people (he thinks of his mother) constantly. He doesn’t want to be fragile. He doesn’t want to be sick. He never wanted to be sick.

But instead of saying any of that he settles on: “I don’t think I ever made up my mind in the first place.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at this. “You know I hate it when people talk cryptically.”

“And I hate pubs,” Draco reminds her. “Yet here we are.” He lets go of the bar to gesture dramatically with his arms, but has to quickly hold on again when he starts to sway.

Of course Pansy doesn’t fail to notice this. But she doesn’t say anything which Draco is thankful for. Just one more day.

“When you’re out of hospital, you can choose where we go to dinner first,” Pansy suggests, and then her lips fall into a smirk. “That’s if you haven’t already got plans with a certain saviour?”

Draco smiles. It’s a nice idea, and of course Draco is all for it but - “I don’t know if he’ll still be interested by the time I get out, _if_ I ever get out.”

Pansy mimes banging her head on the table, something she likes to do to show Draco when she thinks he’s being particularly infuriating. “Then _maintain_ his interest,” she says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You’re not going to Azkaban, Draco.”

No, not Azkaban. But still somewhere cold. Surrounded by death. Trapped. Indefinitely. “It feels a little bit that way,” Draco admits.

“I’ll visit you every second day, and Potter can visit you every other. How does that sound?” Pansy asks.

“I don’t think – “

“Please don’t replace one denial with the next. I can’t bear it.” Pansy says flinging her head into her hands dramatically.

Draco rolls his eyes. Pansy can be dramatic if she likes. Draco’s only being practical. Potter has a life outside of him. Everybody does. Including Pansy. Actually – “You shouldn’t be flooing so often. Especially all the way to Portugal and back. Too much long distance floo exposure is dangerous.”

“I won’t. And I haven’t been.” Pansy’s expression turns apologetic. ‘I’ve been staying at the Manor actually.”

“What?”

Pansy shrugs casually but her expression shows her guilt at keeping this a secret. “Your mother insisted.”

“What about work?” Draco asks. Pansy must have been here for a week by now.

“I’m bedridden with a horrid case of splattergroit.” Pansy says, attempting to prove this by scrunching up her face unattractively.

“You can’t keep that up forever.”

Pansy relaxes her face and looks at Draco seriously. “I’ll keep it up for as long as I need to. As long as you need me.”

“I don’t need – “

“When are you going to learn needing people isn’t a weakness, Draco?”


	8. Wednesday Again

“Draco!”

Draco wants to roll his eyes. He wants to shrug with a casual air of indifference. He wants to turn back around. But on seeing his mother’s face light up so immediately at his presence at the door, he can’t quite manage it. He lets himself be pulled into a hug with only a “No need to fret, Mother,” in his defence.

“I’m not fretting”, Narcissa insists, tightening her hold. “I’m hugging my son whom I haven’t seen in over a week.”

Draco relaxes and wraps his arms around his mother in return. He’s not overly keen to admit it but he’s missed her. It’s only been a week. But he has missed her terribly. And it’s all his fault.

“I love you,” Narcissa says, still holding him as if he hasn’t shut her out for the last week, as if he hadn’t yelled at her, berated her, and said the most dreadful things.

“I love you too,” Draco says quietly in return as she finally lets go and he steps inside the Manor.

Her eyes study him carefully. A pause and then: “Have you eaten today?”

She’s brave. She’s always been so. A question like that could easily turn into an argument. In fact, it has several times in the past. But Draco’s trying to be brave too. “You already know I haven’t.”

“I’ll make you an omelette. You always used to love when your father would – “

“Mother.” Draco interrupts preparing himself to jump into the fray. It’s now or never. “Will you come with me to the hospital?”

“Oh, Draco!” Narcissa says, her eyes dangerously wet as she pulls Draco in for another hug. “Of course, of course.”

“I’m sorry for –“ Draco thinks of all the things he said to his mother that last time he saw her. The yelling. The screaming. All because she had told him what he couldn’t bear to see himself. He has an eating disorder. Merlin, it’s still hard to even think it. But he doesn’t say all that. He settles on – “pushing you away.” She knows what he means anyway.

Narcissa pulls back to look at Draco, and yes, she’s crying, and now Draco might start crying too, fucking hell. “Don’t you think on it,” she says in a choked up voice. “You’re here now and you’re ready. I’m so proud of you, dear.”

So, when Draco arrives in St Mungo’s apparition ward, it’s hand in hand with his mother, and he’s clinging on tight, terrified to let go.

 

* * *

 

Draco tries to concentrate on the Doctor talking to him but there’s something distracting him. Something he feels like he’s missing. Something he should be doing right now. He checks the time. Just after 7pm. Dinner. He’s missing dinner. And it feels strange.

Just as Draco’s pondering this, as if accio-ed by his thoughts, who else but Harry Potter appears in the door of the hospital room, looking horribly flushed and sweaty.

The Doctor pauses for a moment to glance at the intruder.

‘How is it that you look worse than me, Potter?” Draco asks, although he’s being a little facetious. A sweaty Potter is not necessarily a bad looking Potter. Not at all.

“Work ran late,” Potter says, running a hand through his damp hair as he walks into the room. “I wanted to get here earlier to see you.”

“Pansy told you?” Draco guesses. He has a suspicion they may just be colluding behind his back.

“Yeah she…I’m glad.” Potter says, seeming unable to string a full sentence together. He looks over to the Doctor. “Sorry, I’m interrupting. I’ll wait outside.”

“Stay.”

Without another word, Potter sits by Draco’s side and takes his hand, gently. How else? They both turn to the Doctor.

“For now, we’re magically feeding you, making sure you get all the nutrients your body needs. But you need to relearn how to eat on your own as well. Get rid of bad, destructive habits. I’m not going to ask you to do anything until you’re in a stronger state, but I’d like you to start thinking about a food you enjoy, maybe an old favourite food. Something that might get you to start to think positively about eating again. Can you do that?”

“Yeah…sure.” Draco watches the Doctor leave. That’s it? A favourite food? He can’t see how that’s going to get him eating again. But if it’s what the doctor orders…

“Did you have a food in mind?” Potter asks.

“I can’t think,” Draco says when nothing comes to his head. He can’t recall enjoying food at all, let alone having a favourite. Just thinking about food is repulsive.

“Hold on,” Potter says, with a small smile he’s obviously trying to hide. He pulls his hand from Draco’s grip (which Draco lets go of very very reluctantly) and disappears from the room.

He returns a short time later with his hands outstretched. He’s holding a green apple. A single green apple. Draco stares at it.

“A green apple?”

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it? And I’m thinking maybe when you’re a bit better, I could make you apple pie. Or something with applesauce? Do you like that? Or, I know it sounds weird, but Hermione makes this really great apple and walnut salad. And maybe this is a little childish, but I’ve always wanted to make candied – “

Draco is listening to Harry, he really is, but he’s also staring, staring transfixed at this beautiful, compassionate man. With everything that he’s been through, no one could blame Harry if he were to become unkind, cynical, selfish. But he’s none of those things. Not even close. Despite all the darkness that has stolen its way into his life, Harry has remained a shining light, a saviour. Always. And Draco is just finding out what it’s like to have that light focused on you; it’s blinding.

At this point, even a green apple, which Harry is right, was once his favourite, isn’t anything that Draco can think positively about. It’s food. It’s repulsive. It’s wrong. But Harry Potter’s light, now there’s something very right about that.

Draco leans up from the hospital bed, feeling stronger already. He’d like to be a romantic and say its thanks to Harry’s presence but that would do a disservice to the St Mungo’s staff who’ve been looking after him all day, to the nutrients they’ve ensured reach his stomach and refuel his body (although he’s still trying not to think too much on exactly what they put inside of him), and to the progress Draco’s made in simply accepting help from others. It’s not Harry’s presence at all. And maybe that’s more romantic. He doesn’t need Harry. But he wants him. By merlin, he wants him. So he cuts off Harry’s green apple rant – he’s now going on about Green Apple sorbet – with a soft kiss on the lips.

At least it’s meant to be soft. It starts off soft. But Draco has more energy than he has had in months, and Harry, well, Harry is equally enthusiastic. It’s not exactly how Draco pictured his first kiss with Harry. Not that he had pictured if of course. But let’s just say if, _hypothetically_ , he had, it certainly wasn’t in a cold sterile hospital room with Draco wearing nothing but a hospital gown and Harry fully clothed.

But nonetheless, it’s perfect. And really the hospital isn’t all bad. The gown is of course. The gown is all kinds of hideous. But Draco can make it through. No, he’s _going_ to make it through. Because Draco Malfoy is a long way from fully recovering. Perhaps he’ll never get there completely. But he’s finally ready to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it finally ends. Thanks for reading. Just a quick note from the author because I don't want anyone stuck in a false fantasy: as I hope this story will be interpreted: romance is NOT a cure, love and support are helpful but professional help is usually the best course of action. Be safe and look after yourself and your friends ❤ xx

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://queenofthyme.tumblr.com/) for more drabbles and things or check out my other works on ao3 <3  
>   
> More like this:  
> [Reigniting Harry Potter (A Task for Draco Malfoy) (5k)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10960914)  
> [How to Apologise to Harry Potter in 10 Days (18k)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468365e)  
> 


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